


Miscellaneous Clint/Coulson Shorts

by windsweptfic



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (2012), The Unusuals, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Crossover, Deathfic, Fluff, M/M, Minor Clint Barton/Phil Coulson/Natasha Romanov, Multi, PWP
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-18
Updated: 2013-07-18
Packaged: 2017-12-20 13:55:20
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 2,885
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/888047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/windsweptfic/pseuds/windsweptfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Just a collection of stories focusing on the pairing of Clint Barton/Phil Coulson.</p><p>1: [G] Where Clint was when Coulson was buying donuts. With podfic by <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/users/sly_hostetter/pseuds/sly">sly_hostetter</a>!<br/>2: [G] Coulson is a reformed Trickster. Loki is disappointed.<br/>3: [NC-17] Clint/Coulson/+Natasha. Contains minor plot.<br/>4: [G] Crossover with The Unusuals: Casey discovers that, once upon a time, Jason Walsh carried a bow instead of a badge.<br/>5: [G, DEATHFIC] Phil watches Clint die on a nineteen-inch viewscreen.<br/>6: [G, DEATHFIC] Mean little drabble.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1: [G] Where Clint was when Coulson was buying donuts. With podfic by [sly_hostetter](http://archiveofourown.org/users/sly_hostetter/pseuds/sly)! [ **[LINK TO PODFIC](http://archiveofourown.org/works/728155)** ]
> 
> From a [prompt](http://norsekink.livejournal.com/3415.html?thread=7843927#t7843927) at the kink meme: 
> 
> _I want some Coulson/Hawkeye based on this:_  
> <http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=QAMgkpQYOSQ>

Once the would-be robbers are properly disposed of and the cashier has calmed enough to stop sobbing into Phil's shoulder, he wanders back into the gas station (stepping over the thieves' tied-up unconscious bodies) to retrieve both packages of donuts and a bottle of water. He fixes himself a cup of the tar-black coffee and leaves the cashier with his card and a twenty, and goes back out to his car. 

The chocolate donuts are placed on the passenger's seat, the cup of coffee put into the cupholder, and then Phil twists around to look at the man sleeping sprawled on the back seat. 

"Clint," he says gently, reaching out to brush a stray bit of hair from his lover's face. Clint wrinkles up his nose and yawns, brilliant blue eyes opening sleepily. Phil hands him the powdered donuts and the bottle of water, stroking a hand down the side of his neck as Clint smiles at him drowsily.

The marksman will, inevitably, get powdered sugar all over the carpet (which, Phil suspects, is the sole reason Clint likes the messy donuts so much) which will mean either a cleaning service or forfeiting the deposit on the car rental. But as Clint opens the package with the delight of a kid being treated to his favorite candy, Phil decides he doesn't really mind.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 2: [G] Coulson is a reformed Trickster. Loki is disappointed.
> 
> Inspired by a prompt from sexyspork on Livejournal.

"You," Loki declared with a pout, "Are going soft."

Phil's eyebrow had the decency to twitch, which was basically the equivalence of a guilty look.

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

Loki snorted, pouring himself another cup of tea as the two sat in a quiet café just off Central Park. He was still wearing his armor, the cape and ridiculous helmet still present, but no one around them noticed. From their perspective he was in a casual business suit, unassuming and ordinary.

"How long have you been with SHIELD? With the Avengers? I could understand a decade or two getting in their good graces, but this is just becoming ridiculous. You haven't done anything in _years_."

"Last week I reprogrammed Stark's suit to zap him every time he swears," Phil offered, but it was halfhearted at best. Loki scoffed.

"This from the one who once turned an entire river into wine just to see the upheaval it would cause." 

Phil grinned.

"Yeah, that was a good prank."

Loki brandished a scone at him, triumphant.

"See! You still have the soul of a trickster. You are still the Coyote. And yet you remain with this do-gooding group of half-wits as they try to save the world when there is far more enjoyment in causing chaos. You have gone _soft_."

"Probably," Phil admitted, unconcerned. But he had to conceal a fond smile behind his blueberry muffin, and Loki's eyes narrowed.

"Oh, do not tell me it's that _mortal_."

"I like him," Phil returned loftily. "And he's a good man. With a wicked sense of humor; I'm wondering if he was one of us in a past life."

"I still haven’t heard from the Raven," Loki admitted. He cast Phil a shrewd look before shaking his head resignedly. "But you are not to be swayed, are you? Very well, indulge your little century or two of being good. I will just have to make up for your absence."

"I'm sure you will," Phil grinned. "Just try not to hurt the little one with the bow next time."

"I make no promises," Loki replied breezily, snagging another scone as he stood up. "All these mortals look the same to me."

He turned to go but paused, just a brief moment, and Phil's eyes softened.

"I'll watch after Thor," he reassured the trickster. Loki's gaze flicked to him, quietly grateful, and then he swept out of the café. 

Phil wasn't even surprised when a woman ran out of the bathroom a few minutes later, screaming there was a crocodile trying to climb through the toilet.

When he went home he found Clint sprawled across his bed, still in full gear and passed out cold after an exhausting day of battling evil. Clint mumbled something about saving an entire city block with a sleepy, pleased smile when Phil helped pull off his armor, and Phil shushed him fondly and pulled the blankets over them. Helping people made Clint happy; and when Clint was happy, Phil was happy.

But he was still going to switch out Stark's coffee for decaf.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 3: [NC-17] Clint/Coulson/+Natasha. Contains minor plot.
> 
> ...I have no memory of why I wrote this.

Natasha had lovely hands.

Fine-boned and graceful, they were the kind of hands that sculptors strove to emulate in their work. Her fingers were long and slender, holding deceptive strength: fingertips callused from years of fighting and pulling triggers.

And right then Clint could feel every. single. ridge.

"It's always such a novelty when you're incoherent," Natasha murmured against his ear, soft breath tickling the fine hairs there. "I think it's the only time when you aren't mouthing off, other than while you sleep."

"No, he does that in his sleep, too," Phil chuckled from the foot of the bed, his voice husky, eyes dark as he watched them move together. Natasha's breasts were pressed against Clint's back, his bound arms trapped between them. She had an arm hooked around her partner's waist while her free hand busied itself between his legs, slender fingers working him open. Both she and Phil were still clothed, watching Clint dissolve into pieces before them.

"You're letting him develop bad habits," Natasha chided. She twisted her wrist and Clint let out a strangled, gurgling whimper. "We were trained to not make any noise while asleep. It could have compromised the missions."

"Thankfully, you aren't sent on those kinds of missions very often, anymore," Phil replied. He moved up the bed to sit next to them, reaching out to stroke Clint's cheek. "Besides, I like it when he makes noise."

Natasha laughed. "I think you're the only one."

Clint moaned lowly, canting his hips up as Natasha's clever fingers stroked unerringly across his prostrate. She fucked him slow and easy for a long while, not pausing until Clint was gasping for breath as he writhed in her arms. She pressed a fond kiss to his temple.

"Shh, _lapushka_. Are you ready for another? Can you take it?"

Clint _arched_ , a choking wail torn from his throat as Natasha slipped a third finger inside of him without waiting for a response. They all knew that he could take Phil with barely any prep given the right mood (and he was always in the right mood), but that wasn't what tonight was about. That wasn't the purpose of the exercise. While he often liked to reduce Clint to a shaky, boneless mess, Phil was perfectly capable of doing that on his own. He didn't need Natasha to accomplish that.

But Clint needed Natasha, and that was all that mattered.

Phil brushed his thumb across Clint's bottom lip, slipping just the tiniest bit inside his lover's slack mouth. Clint visibly battled to regain some of his senses, tongue flicking out to stroke across the pad of Phil's finger; eyes unfocused and hazy as he struggled to please on instinct.

"Let go, baby," Phil murmured softly. "Just let go. You don't have to do anything. Just let us take care of you."

"Nn...but...please... _need_ \--"

"We know, Clint," Natasha murmured softly. "And we'll give it to you. Trust us to give you what you need. Trust us to take care of you."

Clint let out a choking, broken sob, his eyes squeezing tightly shut. 

_"They left him there, Phil," Nick said as the remnants of Clint's team shuffled off the plane with haggard, guilty eyes. The medics followed behind, rolling Clint out on a gurney. He was deathly pale, his bared arms littered with cuts and burns from shrapnel; a thick bandage wrapped around his temple._

_"He went to play decoy and once the mission was done, they abandoned him. It wasn't until after when they radioed in for extraction that we found out they'd left him behind."_

_Nick was silent for a long moment as Phil struggled to see past the red that blotted his vision. When he was able to regain himself he looked up to find Nick watching him with a carefully blank expression. The Director's eyes were cool._

_"Make them look like accidents."_

"Please," Clint whispered. "Please...what do you... I want to, just let me..."

"You don't need to do anything for us, _lapushka_ ," Natasha said gently. "Just let go."

Clint inhaled a shaky, shuddering breath. He was shivering violently in Natasha's arms, feet pressed flat against the bed, his thighs trembling uncontrollably. His cock pressed against his belly, smearing precome across tan skin with each buck of his hips. Every muscle in his body was taut as he struggled against what they were asking of him, eyelids still pressed together, and Phil exchanged a worried glance with Natasha.

He cupped Clint's jaw in his hand, delicate and careful, as he tilted his lover's head up to press a tender kiss to his lips.

"Trust us," he whispered. "Please."

Clint's eyes fluttered open, agonized and desperately wanting, and Phil could see the events of the failed mission replaying in his lover's gaze. Taking responsibility as a leader, throwing himself in harm's way; laying dazed and in pain and alone as he waited for a rescue that never came. Seeing his men's faces when he was retrieved: guilty for having been caught, but not for leaving him behind.

Clint sucked in a gasping breath of air like he'd just breached the surface of water, tears welling in his eyes as the guards he'd put up ever since the disastrous operation four months ago shattered into pieces around him. His eyes were pleading and vulnerable as he arched up to capture Phil's lips with his own, kissing him with a frantic need he hadn't been allowing himself to feel. Because as much as he was loved and as much as he was wanted, Clint had never been sure about his place with people. He approached them with the wary hopefulness of a kicked dog, hoping that if he pleased them enough, he could stay. 

But even the most resilient of pups had their breaking point, and every hurt made trust that much harder to offer again.

 _'Don't hurt me,'_ the kiss pleaded, and Phil's lips responded with a firm, _'Never.'_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (And then Phil fucks Clint while Natasha holds him and Clint goes all limp and groggy and contentedly safe between them and they both snuggle up to him while he sleeps. Really in my head Natasha and Clint are still just BFFs, just, you know, with issues. And ways to deal with their issues.)


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 4: [G] Crossover with The Unusuals: Casey discovers that, once upon a time, Jason Walsh carried a bow instead of a badge.
> 
> 'nother prompt from sexyspork. 
> 
> [The Unusuals](http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/The_Unusuals) is amazing. Go watch it.

Casey hadn't really known what to expect when she went into Walsh's locker. Considering Kowalski's, she wouldn't have been terribly surprised to find anything from drugs to a blow-up doll, even though neither of those were really Walsh's thing. She would _not_ have been surprised to find out that he really did write poetry, though.

She hadn't wanted to do it. Walsh wasn't dead, and going through his things was almost like admitting that he would be. The entire city was in an uproar over the psycho supervillian who'd kidnapped a cop, but as the minutes ticked by and the brass became increasingly suspicious that Walsh knew the guy beforehand, the threat of them tossing all his belongings grew. So Casey had quietly slipped out of the war room and down to the lockers, where she not-so-quietly used bolt cutters to remove Walsh's lock.

The most startling thing, she decided, was that it was so _neat_.

Extra shirts were hung on the left side, spare pants on the right. His own personal weapons shop had a little storage hanger on the back--there were knives, and guns, and a baton and something that looked suspiciously like a grenade--and the top shelf had some books and random items like gum or spare handcuffs in a nice row. 

The second-most surprising thing was the bow that leaned crosswise in the small space, sleek and well-worn. A quiver was in the back corner filled with shiny arrows that Casey was pretty sure weren't for hunting game.

She reached out wonderingly to touch the bow when a calm voice from behind her said, 

"Stop."

She spun around just in time to have two black-suited men pass by her, carrying a cardboard box. They started pulling things out of Walsh's locker and Casey glared at the man responsible: short-statured, thinning hair, but with the presence of someone you didn't want to fuck with. His eyes were tight with worry, black circles beneath them, and he was clearly forcing the smile onto his face.

"Those are my _partner's_ things--"

"We know, Ms. Shraeger. And they will be returned to him once we get him back."

Casey frowned.

"You're not cops. What, then? CIA? FBI?"

"Classified," the man replied smoothly. He walked past her to reach into the now mostly-empty locker, picking up the quiver of arrows and carefully placing them into the box. He went back for the bow, his hand running across the upper limb with an odd expression of nostalgic fondness. 

"But you're going to get him back?" Casey couldn't help the waver that made it into her voice. She knew the NYPD was at a dead end, and the idea of losing Walsh made her guts turn to ice. The rest of the 2nd could barely function without him, and she knew that he was one of the few things that kept her sane on the job.

The agent picked up the bow, tucking it gently away before looking up at her. His eyes glittered, fierce and deadly.

"Yes. I will."

Casey didn't doubt him for a second.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 5: [G, DEATHFIC] Phil watches Clint die on a nineteen-inch viewscreen.
> 
> Written because I was feeling moody. :D

Phil watches Clint die on a nineteen-inch viewscreen, separated by lead walls that measure ten feet thick.

"...still can't believe I made that shot," Clint is saying, voice hoarse and thready. He's laying curled up on his side on the cot within the chamber, too weak to do so much as raise his head. The video feed only captures him from the waist up and isn't enough at the same time it's too much, revealing translucent skin pale and glowing softly through the blankets; showing once-bright blue eyes with no focus, the delicate cells ruined within the first few hours.

"Eleven at night in a snowstorm?" Phil arches an eyebrow, remembering the mission in question. "That was child's play for you."

"You forgot the moose," Clint chuckles, painfully; the humor on his drawn features twisting into pain as his diaphragm spasms. Blood flecks the white pillows and beneath the desk, out of sight of the camera, Phil's fingernails bite red into his palms. He waits, quiet, patient, as the tremors subside. Clint sags back into the pillows, eyes fluttering shut.

Phil waits, and he waits, and the silence stretches too long and he whispers, "Clint?" with hope and fear and desperation, his voice cracking on the single, simple syllable.

"Sorry," Clint mumbles. His lips barely move and his eyes don't open. "Just resting my eyes."

"Of course," Phil whispers.

The corners of Clint's mouth twitch upward in the ghost of a smile.

"Never did believe you when you said that in Beirut. Hell of an op. Only got forty hours of sleep the whole week..."

Phil listens as Clint continues murmuring. Wetness seeps into his slacks from his hands, fisting tightly against his thighs. He listens as Clint's voice grows softer, fainter, letting him talk through the pain and the creeping enervation.

Clint stops talking again partway through the Taiwan mission. Phil waits. He counts seconds and then minutes and then whispers brokenly,

"Clint?"

"...an' you thought a side approach was a good idea, even with all th' damn rose bushes..."

Clint talks and murmurs and mumbles and whispers, and Phil listens. He listens to every word, every letter, every inflection and subtle quirk of accent. He listens and listens and never wants to stop, the world standing still when Clint stops speaking again.

He waits five whole minutes.

"Clint?"

Another five.

"Clint?"

Another fifteen minutes of quiet and then Phil starts to talk. He picks up where Clint left off, follows his rambling tangents and adds in his asides about weaponry and ridiculousness and sly little innuendos. He mentions the technical points from a marksman's point of view and points out how Natasha would have done things differently, or how the shot that looked so easy actually was pretty damn difficult to gauge with distance and wind currents and the sun in his eyes.

Phil talks and he talks and he talks until three hours later Natasha walks into the small communications room and closes her hand over his shoulder. Her eyes shimmer in the dim light and when he looks at her she shakes her head. He looks back to the screen, where Clint lays silent and still.

It's too quiet.


	6. you've been the only thing that's right in all I've done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 6: [G, DEATHFIC] Mean little drabble.
> 
> Just wanted to play with the 100-word limit of a drabble. Inspired by Snow Patrol's '[Run](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jS8IZcx7tJY)'.

"I'm sorry," Clint rasps.

"Don't be," Phil murmurs. He curls his fingers around Clint's bloodied hand and leans forward to rest his forehead against his lover's. Clint coughs, wetly, eyes glistening as he struggles to breathe beneath the chunk of concrete crushing his chest. Tremors shake the room.

"Shouldn't...have stayed. Not...for me."

Phil smiles, the expression loving and without regret.

"I made so many mistakes during my life," he whispers softly. "But staying with you was never one of them."

As Phil presses his lips to Clint's the ground heaves, steel supports screeching, and the ruined building collapses atop them.


End file.
